Winter's Memory
by Lizzie B
Summary: Describe a winter memory using all five senses. John Munch fic.


Winter's Memory

By: Liz B

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_Describe a winter memory using all five senses._

The air was still as John Munch crunched his way through the snow. The rain last night had frozen into a thin covering of ice that snapped like glass under the weight of his loafers, making him sink a little with every step he took. Finn trudged behind him, using John's footsteps as a safe place to walk. John grumbled a little about it. Normally he was the one to follow Finn, but today he'd gotten to the scene first and was now the designated footprint maker. He could already feel the cold seeping through the black leather of his shoes, making him flex his toes to keep them warm. His wool socks were doing a pretty good job all on their own, but he was about to spend a good four to six hours standing around a crime scene and he wasn't about to risk frostbite.

Snow clung to the cuff of his pants, even though he tried to avoid the really deep parts. It was going to drive him crazy when it melted. The water would seep through his socks and leave a cold wet ring around his ankles like a set of shackles that he'd have to walk around in all day. It was one of the most annoying feelings in the world to John, like an itch that wouldn't go away no matter how much you scratched. His only consolation was that Finn would have the same problem, even if it didn't bother the other detective as much.

He watched his feet as he walked, black shoes standing out in stark contrast to the white snow at his feet. Real white snow was nearly impossible to find in New York City, most of it turned to gray slush by sideway salt and the gutter. All the dirt that constantly coated the city from pollution and trash just took over and left what could be beautiful an unattractive mushy blob of neutral. John liked parks like this one, where the snow stayed white like snow was supposed to be. It wasn't light and fluffy anymore, but the crisp crack of the ice and the soft crunch of the snow underneath was the sound of winter and the holidays to him. It was certainly more beautiful than the cheap commercial carols and mass market hymns the stores and radio stations blared all hours of the day.

The wind picked up suddenly, blowing the bottom of John's long black coat out behind him. He lifted his head and breathed deep. The cold air settled in his lungs while the metallic smell of blood settled in his nose. Just from that breath, John could tell this one was going to be brutal. The blood smelled fresh, still warm. He guessed there were going to be large pools of it and that the victim had died recently. If he could still smell it, feel the warmth of it in his nose, the blood hadn't had time to freeze in the night. He wondered if it had melted the ice and turned the snow underneath pink, or if it was just watered down, making it more like broth than blood.

With a white backdrop, the scene stood out in dark blues and a single line of yellow crime scene tape. The CSU techs and uniformed officers blue jackets looked darker than normal against the snow, like John's shoes. The yellow tape was almost completely washed out as it bobbed up and down in the wind. When he approached, one of the uniforms lifted the tape for him, and started talking about what he'd found when he arrived at the scene and that the woman who found the bodies was looking for her lost cat.

John listened, every detail lodged firmly into his brain as he looked around the scene. Finn walked past him, going to talk to the techs that hovered around, but John stood back and studied. There were two bodies, both male, face down laid out in the snow. There was no coating of ice over them, just a littering of stab wounds up and down their backs, making them look like human punch cards. Their skin was a sickly pale blue color from cold and death. He had been right about the blood. It spread out from under the bodies like a blanket, staining the snow dark red except at the edges where it faded from pink to white again. If the bodies hadn't been lying on that red blanket of blood, the woman may have walked right past them and never know they were there.

John stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets, flexed his toes again and licked his lips. He tasted chap stick and something metallic, a little sweet and sour too. He was used to it, hardly noticed it really, but that taste would linger in his mouth for hours. Long after he and Finn had left the scene he'd lick his lips again and find murder hovering around his mouth. No matter how strong the coffee or the food he ate that taste would stay. He'd been at too many scenes like this one to ever shake it loose now. It drove other detectives nuts. Finn would chew gum to get rid of it, Don and Lennie had tried to drink it away, and Elliot raged against it. John's cure had been women, but after four failed marriage he gave up on that vice. Now he accepted it, let it remind him of just what his purpose was. He was meant to taste it so that other people, the family members, survivors and victims wouldn't have to taste it. His job was to find the person who created that taste and lock them up.

John chuckled softly at the morbid thought of some killer shouting "Bam!" like Emril, the sound materializing in a little wisp of steam that rose up above his head and then got blown away by the winter wind.


End file.
